My Name Is St Jimmy
by The Dibster
Summary: Rating Pending  I am the voice of the unheard, the denied. I am the hero to the hopeless. This is the legend of the Jesus of suburbia. This is the legend of Ferb Fletcher.


Welcome, dedicated Phineas and Ferb fans. Thank you so so so very much for reading this, and I hope you'll enjoy. This story is entirely based on _American Idiot: The Musical_, which is a broadway production inspired by its namesake, _Green Day's American Idiot (album)_. I suppose this is the written adaptaion of the musical, except using the characters of the beloved cartoon, Phineas and Ferb. Keep in mind, this story will contain slightly mature themes. But I do hope you like. If you haven't heard Green Day's songs, please listen to the album, as it might give you a glimpse into what our story is about. However, you by no means have to listen to the album, nor watch the musical, nor be a dedicated Green Day fan to enjoy/understand this AT ALL.

Thus, without further ado...

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><p><em> "Welcome to a new kind of tension<em>  
><em>All across the alien nation <em>  
><em>Where everything isn't meant to be okay."<em>

**Chapter One.**  
><strong>American Idiot.<strong>

I am messed up.

I am pathetic.

I am insane.

I am a legend.

I am a messup.

I am the best thing you'll know.

I am the worst thing that could happen to you.

I am everything.

I am nothing.

I am Ferb Fletcher.

And Ferb Fletcher does what he wants. He doesn't care about anything or anyone. Some might say I'm a punk. I don't care. Ferb Fletcher is hope. Hope for a better tomorrow. I am keeper of all the little screwups and runaways. Ferb Fletcher is destruction. Tearing apart lives, breaking the status quo. All I know is chaos, pain.

I am the one that you would look down on. I am ignored. I am that poor, disturbed youngster on the street. I am the one that you would dismiss as mearly a teenager looking for trouble. But I am the one that is looked up to. I am brother, even father. I am the brave, heroic leader. I am saviour. I am the one that they turn to when there is no where left to run, to hide.

I am the Jesus of this small, dirty town.

This is the legend that is the Jesus of Suburbia.

This is the legend that is Ferb Fletcher.

_February 2, 6:58 AM_

Today, I am no legend.

Today, I'm just another teenage boy with a bad attitude.

I haven't slept all night. I snuck out last night to take a walk, and ended up meeting some new posers. I already forgot their names; one had died her hair cherry-red, a sleeve adorning her left arm, and sucked at applying makeup. The other was kinda hot, wearing a tube top and super-short black shorts. Black streaks invaded her long, blonde hair, and she looked like she traced around her eyes with a Sharpie.

Whatever, they're just posers.

I won't see them again, they mean nothing to me. Just like everything and everyone else.

The sounds of my younger brother waking in his bed distracts me from my thoughts. As he sits up to rub the sleep out of his eyes, I close mine quickly, pretending to be asleep.

Except, I'm on top of my covers, completely dressed, wearing shoes.

"F-Ferb?" Phineas calls gently, with his voice sounding so innocent. "Ferb, are you awake?"

I try my hardest not to move, but I can feel a strong sneeze coming. Phineas is young and gullible, so I'm sure he must be convinced I'm asleep. Why I don't want him to know I'm awake, I don't really know.

But a big sneeze ruins it all.

I sigh and open my eyes, as my little redhead gets dressed. His purple skinny jeans weren't even buttoned, and he wasn't wearing a shirt, as he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

"Good morning, Ferb," he says cheerily, before jamming a toothbrush in his mouth. I don't get it. Somehow, even when he dresses in colored skinny jeans and paints his nails black, people still think he's some innocent little boy. He may have those big juicy eyes and he may talk like an angel, but I know the real Phineas. And he's not so saint-like.

It's not till I stand up to get out of bed that I realize how foul I smell... I _wreak_ of cigarettes. I'm tempted to shower, but it's too much effort. Besides, today's schedule included hardly anything but hanging out with Phineas and my bud, Buford down at the adandoned train depot. Get a little high, down a couple beers. The usual.

I sighed and went downstairs to the kitchen. I wasn't really hungry, but I felt like I needed to do something. I hadn't eaten anything yesterday. But consumption of actual food was becoming less and less of a common activity of mine lately. Whatever appitite I did have, though, was ruined by the smell of B.O. and coffee.

Brad...

My father died three years ago, just weeks after my fourteenth birthday. Ever since then, I've been sentenced to rot in this hell-hole. Father was my only blood relation in the family. Now I'm living alone, in a house where everyone claims to be my family... but they're not. Even if mother adopted me, she's not my mother. And she never will be. Phineas may be my best friend, but he's not my brother. Never will be. Ever since Father passed away, my _"mother"_ has gone from Mom to simply Linda. Because why call her mom, if she isn't?

Anyway, Linda didn't seem too disrupted about Father's passing. In fact, she jumped right back into dating, and seemed to be bringing home some new guy every month. According to Phineas, before Linda married my father, she was- as naive, innocent little Phineas put it- a whore. She was always bringing home men to stay the night, or else leaving to spend the night at some other man's house. She wasn't a terrible mother or anything... she was just... lustful. And unstable in the field of marriage. She was always getting married to creeps, and getting divorced a week or so later.

Brad, unfortunately, was one of the rare finds who actually stayed around longer than a month. In fact, things were starting to get serious. He must be damn horny, because I honestly can't think of one good thing Linda would see in him. He's ugly, he's smelly, he's stupider than a cockroach... I honestly can't stand the fool!

I reached to the top of the fridge to grab a box of cereal- right as Brad did, too. I jerked my hand back in disgust. "Don't touch my hand, creep!" I sneered.

Brad simply replied, "I'm sorry, I just wanted some cereal."

"Well, so did I! But after feeling the touch of that filthy, greasy hand of yours, my appetite suddenly vanished..."

I could tell Brad was starting to get irritated. "Well, I apologize."

"Take a bloody shower, and I might consider the apology!"

And now Brad's face began to turn red with frustration. Aggravating him was the thing I lived for over the past month.

"Do you live just to aggravate me or something?" Wow. Spot on.

"As a matter of fact," I retorted. "I do, indeed! I enjoy the tomato that your head becomes, and the mountainous vein that pulses from your neck when you're enraged!"

There it was now- a massive ridge pulsing in his neck. Brad was now officially pissed. "Knock it off with the phony accent, kid! We all know you're faking it!"

No. He does not diss the accent- my one reminder of home, the one thing that keeps Linda and Brad and everyone else from forgetting that I'm not part of this family.

"Oh, you think this accent is fake, do you? No, no, I assure you I'm one hundered percent Brit. This is no fake accent! What do you think I am, some kind of lowlife poser pretending to be someone I'm not? I'm not like that! You think _I'm_ the faggot? Because I'm not American? I'm sorry I'm not a part of some stupid redneck agenda! This bloody accent is the one reminder that I'm not part of this idiotic country, America! And that I'm not some idiot like _you_! Why on Earth would you think I would want to be some fat cheeseburger junkie like you? No, no. No, I am not, nor will I ever be, some _stupid_ American idiot!"

I stood staring wildly down at this short man, my eyes popping out of my head, panting. I stood there for just long enough to let my rage sink in, and I stormed out of the kitchen. On my way out, I knocked the bowl of cereal Brad had been preparing towards him, creating a mess of bran and milk.

I slammed the front door on my way out, so violently in fact, that I swear it almost broke right off the hinges.

_"Well maybe I'm the faggot, America_  
><em>I'm not a part of a redneck agenda<em>  
><em>Now everybody, do the propaganda<em>  
><em>And sing along to the age of paranoia."<em>

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><p>Thank you for reading. The next chapter will be up shortly!<p>

**WARNING**: This story will VERY SOON be experiencing changes. After chapter 3, I plan on changing the story's name to American Idiot. The summary might also change. Just a head's up. Thanks!

**-The Dibster**


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